


And Just Watch Us Burn

by samanthahirr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Stiles, Halloween, Horror, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Werewolf Derek, frat party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles goes to a Halloween party on campus to blow off some steam after a stressful week of midterms. He doesn't expect the party to be crashed by both a supernatural predator and Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Just Watch Us Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jadzibelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzibelle/gifts).



> So much love to my beta [cinaea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea) for her patience and genius.

The frat house punch smells like rum, gin, and three kinds of fruit juice, and it burns like gravel on the way down, but after two rounds Stiles hardly notices. Each sip just adds to the happy glow in his stomach, the swagger in his step as he mingles with the cute girl from his philosophy study group. When she heads off to meet a friend, he moves out into the crush and lets his body sway to the deafening Beyoncé soundtrack, buffeted by horny devils, sexy witches, and a conga line of Sigma Sigma Tau brothers dressed as loin-clothed Tarzans. 

Stiles turns his head to enjoy that particular sight. Going out tonight was the best idea he's had all semester.

The amateur DJ fumbles a track change, a dizzying lurch in the beat making Stiles stumble against someone tall and furry. He mutters an apology, steps backward into a leather corset, black sclera contacts, and a feathered domino mask. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, tipsy grin making his cheeks ache as he pinballs away through the sea of costumes. 

He's got a refill in his cup, _California Love_ throbbing in his head, and his eyes fixed on a pair of white rabbit ears leading him through the crowd, when he spots Derek. Or some guy with Derek's profile. The stubble's heavier than he remembers, hair a little too long, but those are the same razor blade cheekbones and shoulders to kill for, and Stiles jerks his gaze away before he does something stupid like march over there and turn the guy around just to prove it's not him.

Yeah, that would be a _terrible_ idea.

Which is why he's already doing it, his hand on a thick bicep, tugging the guy to face him, and he hopes his shocked expression doesn't look as stupid as Derek's, because wow, that is one really unattractive expression on a super-attractive face.

"What," Stiles says intelligently.

"Stiles," Derek says, gaping. 

"What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"This is my school. I go here. And last time I checked, you had zero interest in Berkeley or higher education in general. So what," he repeats, poking Derek's (tight, muscley) t-shirt, "are you doing here?"

Derek's mouth develops an unfortunate twist at the corners, like he's starting to form one of those lethal smiles of his, and damn it, the bastard is still unfairly beautiful. "You go here," Derek says, and he sounds proud, looking around the party like he's looking around the whole damn town. "I knew you'd be okay."

Stiles will deny with his dying breath what that smile does to him. 

"How about everyone else? Your dad? Lydia? …Scott?" Derek's smile turns upside down at the end of that list.

And now Stiles wants to punch him. "They're fine, which you'd know if you'd ever bothered coming back to Beacon Hills." 

Derek scowls and crosses his arms, and Stiles huffs right along with him. The whole undergraduate class is probably watching his passive aggressive showdown with the hottest guy in the Bay Area. When he takes a quick look around to check, he doesn't see anyone he knows, but admittedly his vision's not doing so hot. It's mostly just a blur of dancing bodies, a linebacker carrying a shrieking cheerleader on his shoulders, an iridescent belly dancer grinding against someone in a snakeskin bodysuit. Fangs, and fur, and shiny-shiny skin in every direction except directly in front of him.

Stiles looks back at Derek's plain, dark t-shirt and jeans, the standard 'hot guy' uniform that never goes out of style, and wishes he were a little more sober for this joyous reunion. He also wishes he weren't wearing a jaunty crisscross of yellow crime scene tape—delightful irony aside, it isn't winning him any style points in this company. 

He tries to pull himself up straighter and says, "So now that you're all caught up on the home front, why don't you tell me what you're doing _here_."

Derek doesn't answer, too busy scanning the room, and oh no, Stiles knows that particular brand of hypervigilance.

His stomach clenches with dread, and his pleasant buzz turns into a headache. "Something's wrong, isn't it? Don't give me that look! Just tell me what we're dealing with."

Derek's eyes flicker with the flashing strobe on the mantel, alternating dark and light. "I'm tracking something. A predator. I'm not sure what it is, but this whole house reeks of it."

A predator, somewhere in this crowd. Probably taking advantage of the holiday to blend in. And why not? If Stiles were a hungry monster, that's what he would do. All this trusting, oblivious prey…. "You sure that's not just stale beer and hormones?" he asks weakly.

"It smells like death. It left two bodies in Claremont Canyon last week, ripped to pieces, but this is where it killed them. It's somewhere in this house, and I have to find it before it kills anyone else." He gives Stiles a patronizing look, and Stiles could literally say the next words right along with him. "I need you to get out of here, go somewhere safe."

 _Like. Hell._ "I can handle whatever this town throws at me; you want my help. You don't even know what you're up against."

"Neither do you," Derek shoots back, "so I can't see what help you'd be." 

Stiles forces his lips into a smirk. "Well you wouldn't know, would you? In fact, you don't know anything about me. Not anymore." 

"I know you're in danger here, and it'll be easier if I don't have to worry about you getting hurt again," Derek snaps.

Arguing always did come easier than anything else for them. Stiles doesn't even try to fight the habit. "Concern for my well-being? That's funny coming from the guy who cut and ran three years ago. You didn't give a damn what happened to me or anyone else after you left. And that lame note about 'finding yourself' now that you'd 'evolved' into a higher form of werewolf? Yeah, I really felt your _concern_."

Derek's eyes narrow dangerously. "That's not all I wrote."

"But those were the only honest words in that note."

"I meant all of it, Stiles. I really did have to leave. After I changed, my instincts were stronger, more like compulsions. Resisting them was almost impossible." 

"You could've asked for help, explained what was going on. You had friends and family. We were there for you, but you just disappeared."

"Because I had to! I couldn't control myself anymore. Not around—" Derek looks away, and for one stupid second Stiles's heart fails, already hearing the damning word 'you.' But what he actually says is "—Scott."

"Scott," Stiles echoes, flat. "What."

"Look, we can talk about it later. Right now there's a killer in this house, and you need to get out of here."

Stiles waves that ridiculous suggestion aside—they can argue while they fight evil; Stiles is a great multitasker—and the gesture sends his drink sloshing onto his new sneakers. Great. He ducks his head to check the damage, but the sudden movement makes the room spin and his body tilt precariously to the left. From the corner of his eye, the strobe catches on a girl's smile, a clawed hand wrapping around her throat, and then Derek grips his shoulder and tilts Stiles's body right-way up.

It's instinct to bat the solicitous hand away, to flex his wrist so his palm faces the floor, willing stability into his body…but nothing happens. There's _nothing there_ to call on. Oh fuck. The music is near-deafening, if it's even music anymore. He can't tell, the way the riot of sound makes his eardrums vibrate, the soundwaves so dense the air seems to stick in his throat. 

This isn't just alcohol he's feeling—probably hasn't been for a while now. 

Groping desperately for calm, he tries to control his heartrate, can't. He takes a step and stumbles, lands against Derek's chest, and Derek catches him under his armpits.

"Stiles? Stiles!"

 _I think I've been poisoned_ , Stiles should say, but he's too surprised to speak the words. The cup tumbles from his hand as he scrabbles at Derek's shirt. He has no control left; it took it all. Stiles has _nothing_. When he looks up, Derek's saying something Stiles can't hear over the roaring in the room and in his head. 

Derek's eyes glow blue, his brow furrowing into a pronounced, lupine ridge. With a snarl, he starts forcing his way through the dancing crowd, dragging Stiles toward the front door. Stiles closes his eyes against a nightmare kaleidoscope of tinfoil wings and viscera, and lets Derek take the lead. The only clear thought in his head is that Derek will get him to safety. So he's more than a little surprised when Derek walks him face-first into a wall. 

Stiles's eyes snap open as he jerks free of Derek's grip, only to see Derek halfway across the front porch, his empty hand lit by moonlight. He looks back over his shoulder at Stiles, eyes wide. Stiles moves to follow him, or tries to, but he's already pressed up against the open doorway and…. _The door is open_. The door is open, but Stiles can't pass through it. He presses his palms against the barrier in front of him, a solid, invisible wall across the threshold, keeping Stiles _in_. 

Derek reaches inside, grabs Stiles's shirt and tries to pull him through, but he just slams Stiles's chest against the barrier, once, twice. Derek's fangs gnash with fury. He looks toward the windows, the walls of the house, the roof, and Stiles has the crazy notion Derek might try to huff and puff and blow—

Something sharp trails across his unprotected back. 

Stiles whirls around, heart rabbiting against his ribs, and braces his shoulders against the magical barrier for support. His eyes can't seem to focus in the low, flickering light of the party. Blood-spattered skin, reptilian eyes and needle-like teeth, the whole room is spinning, pressing in on him, and whatever comes for him, he's completely defenseless in its lair.

For the first time in over a year, Stiles thinks he might not live long enough to get out of this.

And then Derek is _there_ , back inside the house and crowding Stiles against the doorway. Placing himself between Stiles and the motley crowd.

"What the hell's going on?" Derek yells, his back heaving where it's pressed against Stiles's chest.

"Magic," Stiles gasps, and sags against Derek's broad shoulder blades. Derek came back. _Derek came back._

"It doesn't affect me."

"Because it's not after you," Stiles says, mouth ahead of his thoughts. Why trap another predator when it has a cage full of helpless prey to toy with?

Derek's mind follows a similar path. "We're too exposed out here. I need to get you somewhere I can protect you." He takes a step away, and Stiles's treacherous knees buckle, dump him on the ground. In an instant, Derek is crouched in front of him, lifting Stiles's head and trying to catch his eyes. "What is it doing to you?" he demands.

Ripping out a part of his being and leaving him hollowed out, that's what. Stiles tries to rein in the panic, to concentrate. He knows this spell, or at least one like it. And he might know how to break it…if the world would stop doing that really convincing Escher impression for a few minutes. "I need. Fuck. I need herbs. Can you see the kitchen?"

Derek hauls him up and draws Stiles's arm across his shoulders. He looks around, then jerks his head across the living room. "It's that way." 

"You have to get me there." 

Derek tightens his jaw, wraps an arm around Stiles's waist, and wades into the fray. The students crammed onto the dance floor part slowly around them, laughing and drinking, heedless of the trap they're caught in. Stiles's stomach roils with nausea fueled by dread, adrenaline, and that empty ache where his power used to be. He tries to keep his eyes open, focuses on a distant point to stop the spinning. But what he sees is impossible—has to be—a hulking shape on the far side of the room, easily nine feet tall, its claws raking gashes in the plaster ceiling.

Whether it's real or not, Stiles ducks his head and tries to curl up small against Derek's side, praying it didn't see him.

Derek shoves through a swinging door into the kitchen. Under the stench of pot and mildew, Stiles smells the undeniable earthy tingle of magic and knows they're on the right track. "Herbs. Find fresh herbs, plants, anything green," he says. Derek grunts, props Stiles against the counter, and steps away. Stiles hears people swearing, pans and silverware clattering to the ground, but he tries to focus on the other component he needs: fire.

It takes a minute to drag himself to the stove, and he's relieved to find it's a gas burner. He ignores the screeching sound of metal being torn from metal, and reaches out to twist the closest nob. A burner switches on, blue flame erupting right under his chin, and Stiles jerks back too quickly and loses his balance. But Derek is right there behind him, holding him up and thrusting a fistful of golden flowers at Stiles's face.

Chrysanthemum—a powerful ingredient. If it was part of the spell, it could work. There's only one way to find out. Stiles grabs the flowers, clumps of black soil tumbling from the roots, and tosses them on the stove. The green stems and bright petals ignite, shriveling and crumpling into ash, and Stiles leans in, gets his nose directly over the blaze, and inhales the smoke deep into his lungs.

As one, his muscles seize, his body shaking as the spell's effects intensify. Derek jerks him away from the smoke and into his arms, pins Stiles against his chest and cups the back of his head as Stiles spasms helplessly. 

"Stay with me," Derek says, over and over, squeezing so tight Stiles wants to protest. But Stiles can't unlock his jaw, can't open his throat, can't do anything but shake until the spell waivers and finally dissipates as the smoke streams from his lips.

He gasps, lungs filling with fresh air, and suddenly _it's back_ , all of it. He can feel the magic thrumming in his veins, and he almost bawls like a baby in Derek's arms. After a minute his legs steady and his fingers unclench from their fists. The world has solidified, too. What he can see of the kitchen is a disaster, food and plastic cups thrown everywhere, large wooden table overturned, refrigerator door ripped off its hinges. 

"Wow," Stiles croaks.

Derek eases his grip enough to look at him. "Are you alright?" he asks, and the naked terror on his face makes Stiles's heart trip over itself.

"I am now, yeah. Thanks."

"What the hell was that?"

"Magic," Stiles says, and at Derek's glare, elaborates. "The chrysanthemum was used in the original spell. Breathing its smoke was like a cure, basically. It broke the spell."

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew that," Derek growls, and the rumble of it vibrates all through Stiles. Derek's still wrapped around him, and they're so close. If Stiles leaned forward, they could almost be…. "If it means I can get you out of here, then that's what I'm doing."

Stiles forces his brain away from kissing Derek and nods agreeably, then shakes his head. Because he no longer needs to leave. And he damn well doesn't want to, either.

"No. I'm staying." His magic stirs with his resolve, a curl of warm, reassuring strength that transforms fear into anger, and anger into a dark, simmering fury. "It staked out a hunting ground on my campus. For my classmates. For me." He takes a deep, centering breath. "No, I'm ending this thing tonight."

Derek looks ready to argue. Stiles doesn't bother to explain; it's faster to just demonstrate. He reaches behind him, fingers tracking the heat to its source, dipping into the flames. When he holds his hand up, Derek shouts a warning and grabs for Stiles's wrist. 

Stiles shoves him away and snaps, "I'm fine! Watch." 

The flames dance across his skin, over the knuckles, along his palm, licking his wrist, and then up his forearm until his arm is alight with a deceptively pale glow. The heat rolls off of him in waves, and he invites it further, coaxes it past his shoulder, across and down to his other hand. Derek watches, silent and awed, and something inside of Stiles burns white-hot-blue at seeing that look—finally, finally—on Derek's face.

"How," Derek says.

"Three years. And a lot of practice," Stiles says. He doesn't disguise his bitterness and is relieved when Derek doesn't pretend to misunderstand, nodding his acceptance. "Now, I can handle whatever this thing is myself. But if you'd like to stay and help, I'd welcome the backup. It's been a long time working alone."

Derek considers, nostrils flaring and lips pinched together, before he eventually says, "Okay."

Stiles nods to hide his surprise and gestures toward the living room, a graceful curl of flame trailing behind his fingers.

Derek mimics the gesture and watches him, like he's expecting another magic trick.

Stiles repeats the motion, and explains when Derek still doesn't get it, "Do you want to get the door for me? Seeing how I'm on fire, here."

Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles would swear he catches a hint of a smile as Derek obliges. He holds the door open, standing well back when Stiles advances. And Stiles's peripheral vision flickers with blue light as he steps into the living room and murmurs, "It's dinner time, asshole. Come and get it."

~

"Jesus Christ," Stiles moans afterward. The world's soundtrack is a high-pitched ringing, and every part of his body aches. He takes a deep breath and calls, "Derek? You alive?"

There's a sharp crack of snapping wood as Derek kicks the couch off his legs. "I think so," he answers, voice tinny after the explosion. Which would account for the ringing. Good to have that sorted. 

"That was insane," Stiles says.

"It was _your_ plan," Derek grunts and pulls himself to his feet. He looks to be in one piece; the deep slashes across his chest have almost stopped bleeding, and his face has some color back under the scruff.

"I got a little carried away," Stiles admits. He doesn't usually get the urge to show off like that, but with Derek watching, he couldn't resist going bigger. Also, he was completely pissed off. All those people running and screaming, Derek's blood pooling on the floor…. The yaoguai got off easy.

He props himself up on his elbows and surveys the structural damage. Derek had gotten the students cleared out, but the house is _toast_. There are scorch marks on most of the walls, the stairs and parts of the ceiling have collapsed, the couch and curtains are smoldering on the point of re-ignition, and every piece of furniture that didn't catch fire is smashed to pieces.

Derek picks his way through the wreckage to stand over Stiles. "That was a grizzly bear," he says, a strained edge to his voice. Stiles could say he looks rattled, but he isn't going to call him on it. 

"Yeah…although not its true form, just what it chose for combat. But a bad idea either way, since it turns out bears are super flammable. Go figure."

Derek stares at him for a moment and then extends a hand. Stiles lets Derek help him up and only whimpers a little as more bruises make themselves known. 

"Thanks for sticking around," Stiles starts to say, but Derek is pulling him close, cupping his face and holding him still for a kiss, fast and urgent. "Oh god," Stiles groans. He gets a hand in Derek's hair, trying to get closer, body pressed to body, exactly the way they belong. Derek's lips are soft, his tongue insistent and his intensity hotter than the flames Stiles had wielded. All the longing he's suppressed reignites to jittery, eager life, until his entire being feels taken over.

Derek pulls back too soon, nips Stiles's lip and nuzzles his ear, says, "Sirens. The fire department's coming."

They're too far away for Stiles to hear, so they've got one, maybe two minutes. Stiles leans in and steals another kiss before sighing and nodding. Derek drops his hands and steps carefully toward the door, his eyes tracking Stiles as he follows him. The threshold is empty, all traces of the magical barrier gone, and Stiles steps out on the porch and takes a deep breath of clean night air. 

And promptly starts coughing, because his clothes are still smoking. He slaps at his shoulders and thighs to clear the worst of it out of the cotton, even stomping his feet to get some wisps out of his sneakers and pant legs. When he looks up, he expects to see Derek's old smile, a twinkle in his eye and a mocking tilt to his eyebrow. But Derek's standing on the bottom step already, staring out at the empty, suburban street.

"So," Stiles says, unnerved by the tension in Derek's posture. "Since we both smell like rotisseried bear…are you hungry? There's a Korean barbecue joint open late."

"They're almost here. We should split up," Derek says. "You head back to campus."

"Split up? No, that's not what we should do. That's the last thing we should do."

Derek glances over his shoulder at him, and Stiles can already feel him withdrawing. His own feet seem rooted to the porch, even though there's no spell to break. "Stiles," he says, regret in his voice.

"Don't you fucking dare. Don't you run away on me again. Not again!"

Up the street, the first fire engine turns the corner. 

Derek lowers his head, hands balled into fists, and he runs.

~

"Flea-ridden son of a bitch," Stiles seethes as he tears the key out of the ignition. "I swear to god, I'm gonna superglue his paws to the goddamn rug."

He snags the takeout bag from the passenger seat and slams the car door, mutters the whole way up to room 214 of Rosa's Roadside Lodge, and slams his palm against the door.

"Open the fuck up, asshole. I know you're in there."

He hears the squeak of bedsprings, and a moment later the door opens on Derek's best don't-fuck-with-me scowl. 

That might work on the rest of the world, but not Stiles. "You don't get to disappear like that," he announces with a finger in Derek's face. "Not anymore. I won't let you."

"How did you find me?" Derek asks, anger giving way to surprise.

"Magic," Stiles says, and twiddles his fingers to be a dick. "Hey, thanks for inviting me in. Don't mind if I do," and he shoves the greasy bag at Derek's chest and squeezes past him into the motel room. There's not much to see: a couple small beds, a box television from the 90's, hideous orange curtains, and wet towels on the floor.

A suitcase lies open on the made-up bed, more lived-out-of than packing-to-leave, thank god. Stiles sits next to it and prods at the contents, making himself at home as obnoxiously as possible. Until he recognizes an old Beacon Hills lacrosse shirt and jerks his hand back.

Derek is sniffing the takeout bag. "You brought me a burrito?"

"I was hungry. Figured you might be, too." Derek looks suspiciously between Stiles and the bag, and then sets it aside. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. But if you're not eating, you're talking."

He meets Derek's incredulous stare for nearly half a minute before Derek finally gives an annoyed huff. His opening salvo is, "You learned magic. From who, Deaton?"

That's the least important topic they have to discuss tonight, which Derek obviously knows. Stiles leans back, sinking his hands into the scratchy, paisley comforter. "Nah. A coven I met over in Cherryfield; they said I had natural talent. So what did you mean about Scott?"

Derek flinches. Good. 

"I'm not leaving until you explain that. You said he's the reason you left Beacon Hills. I want to know why."

Derek looks around the room like he'd love nothing more than another bear to fight. "He was the alpha; it was his territory. If I wasn't in his pack, I didn't belong there. It was the right thing to do—" 

"Bullshit. Scott wouldn't make you leave. He trusted you. And that was your home; he never would've forced the issue."

"No, but I would've," Derek mutters. "What I said about my instincts changing— They were _different_ after Mexico. Stronger. The wolf needed a pack; I needed an alpha." He paces, hands clenching and releasing. "And Scott was in my territory, and a True Alpha, and it was almost impossible to resist. Every time he came around, I wanted to bare my neck and _whine_ …." He cuts himself off, refusing to meet Stiles's eyes.

Stiles is too shaken by the helpless need in Derek's voice to respond for a moment. The thought of him _wanting_ like that—a family, a leader, a place to belong—and wanting that from _Scott_ , whom Derek had never truly respected…Stiles can't wrap his head around it. And judging by the frustration on Derek's face, neither could he.

"Every instinct wanted me to stay, and that's why I had to leave. I had to learn to control it."

"And did you? Get it under control?"

Derek frowns and paces again. "No. Every pack I've run into, the pull is the same. I've had to avoid them, unless a hunt leads into their territory."

Stiles lets himself think about that, Derek alone like that for so long. He wants to say it serves him right, but he can't make himself believe that. Sympathy softens his tone when he asks, "Is that what you've been doing this whole time? Hunting on your own? Without backup?"

Derek shrugs.

"You didn't have to be alone. Scott moved to Chicago for vet school a year ago. You could've gone back to Beacon Hills." 

Derek glances at him from under his eyelashes, quick and assessing, and Stiles knows that look, knows it means Derek is hiding something even worse from him. Probably to spare his feelings or some shit. But there's no way the truth can be worse than what Stiles has imagined for the past three years.

He could let this go; he's sure he isn't going to like whatever secret justification Derek's trying to keep from him. But apparently he's as much a masochist as Derek, because he says, quiet, "Hell, I moved out here two years ago. Would it've killed you to visit me?"

"It might've," Derek says, his teeth clenched like it's painful to admit. 

"So it wasn't just Scott you were running from," Stiles says, feeling gutted. Yeah, that's pretty much exactly what he'd imagined. And it serves him right for pushing, always pushing, until he's left with yet another scar to hide. It's time to leave now, before he makes Derek hurt him even worse. 

He stands, but Derek moves fast to block his path, a hand on Stiles's chest. "Wait, just listen," he says, voice ragged. "We were so new, but it felt like…everything. The wolf wanted _you_ , just you, with no expiration date and no doubts. And it was too quick to fall that hard; it couldn't be real, not after two weeks. I knew better than—"

Stiles's heart jumpstarts painfully, and he grabs Derek and kisses him almost savagely, cutting off whatever bull Derek's told himself to justify running for so long. When he finally comes up for air, Derek is gasping and clutching at his hips, trembling. "This wasn't real?" Stiles pants, tracing Derek's face with his fingers. "You were the best thing I ever felt in my life. How could that not be real?"

Derek breaks with a gorgeous sob and drags Stiles close, incautious claws digging into denim, and kisses him hard. Derek leans his weight into him and takes a step forward, setting Stiles off balance so he's hanging on and then falling with Derek onto the rumpled bed, where Derek holds him down and kisses and kisses him. And god, Stiles missed this so much he's vibrating out of his body, and he suddenly can't live another moment without touching Derek's skin. He tugs at Derek's shirt, and Derek catches on, rips at their clothing until they're both naked and sliding against each other, frantic to reconnect.

"I need you," Stiles begs, spreading his legs shamelessly, and Derek snarls, eyes flashing blue. He buries his face in Stiles's neck and breathes deep, shudders for a moment until he gets himself back under control. When he looks up, his eyes are sweet hazel again, and Stiles claims another kiss before letting Derek stretch toward the other bed to dig in his suitcase. 

He steals a moment to enjoy Derek's physique, virtually unchanged in all their time apart. More chest hair, but no new scars, and even tonight's injuries are gone as though they never happened. Stiles's hands slide over Derek's hard pecs, down his abs, over his sleek hips. He wants to scratch that perfect skin, to hurt Derek for what he did to Stiles, but he also wants to lay every protective spell he knows on it, so he can never be hurt again. 

When Derek looks down at him, eyes dark with intent, Stiles whimpers. It aches to open for his fingers. They'd done this only a handful of times, Derek careful and patient every time, but Stiles doesn't want patience right now. He gets his legs around Derek, tries to urge him on with prodding heels. Derek, curse his infuriating, doting smile, doesn't quicken his pace at all. Minutes later, when he's still slow to add a third finger, torturing both of them with the languid pace, Stiles's pleading turns into dire threats: evisceration; immolation; Stiles getting up and _leaving_ …. 

And Derek abruptly stills, bowing his head to rest against Stiles's sweaty chest. 

"Derek? What—"

"I thought it would fade, but it never did. I still need you, _burn_ for you." He looks up, holds Stiles's gaze as he pumps his fingers deep, says, "You, and nobody else," like he means it. Like he means _forever_.

The confession is intoxicating and absolutely terrifying, the way it draws an answering promise out of Stiles. But he swallows it down, unwilling to give it voice, not yet. He whispers Derek's name instead, arches his back when Derek replaces his fingers with his cock and thrusts in fast and possessive. Stiles cries out and reaches for Derek, drags him down for a series of frantic kisses. Derek gets Stiles's cock in hand, and Stiles throws his head back and moans as Derek drives into him again and again, the pleasure stunning, breath-taking. He kneads at Derek's shoulders, watches sparks of light flow from his fingers unbidden, spreading across Derek's skin as if his magic knows it doesn't have to hide here, doesn't have to be kept secret from this lover. 

And in that heady moment he resolves that Derek is never leaving again, never even going to _try_. Stiles has the power to make him stay, a spell for binding the will. He traces the forbidden rune just there, above the triskelion, where he'll paint it on Derek with alchemic ink, speak the incantation to bind him to Stiles and make him forever _his_.

His fingertips glow hot with jealousy, and Derek groans and thrusts harder. He catches Stiles's lips in a biting kiss, strokes his hand faster, overwhelming Stiles's senses until he shudders, jerks hard, and comes into Derek's hand, crying out Derek's name and holding on for all he's worth. Derek follows a moment later, a broken hitch in his breath when he collapses on top of Stiles, arms burrowing under Stiles to hug him close.

Stiles pets Derek's hair while they recover, idly tracing patterns in golden light under his ear and down his neck. He feels invincible, euphoric. Derek wants him, needs him, and is never leaving him again. Stiles's hand strokes over the tattoo between Derek's shoulder blades, the Hale family symbol for control, for humility, and is hit by a wave of clarity as shocking as chrysanthemum smoke. 

He could never cast that spell. Tempting as it may be—and it _is_ tempting, monstrously so—he couldn't trap Derek like that. He shivers with horror at the memory of it, the symbol he'd traced into Derek's sweat, and how powerful he'd felt doing it, planning that selfish betrayal. He shivers again with dread at that glimpse of his darker self.

Derek misinterprets his twitching and rolls to the side with an apology for crushing him. Stiles hadn't minded the weight; compared to the alternative of Derek disappearing again, he'd gladly stay under Derek all night. He follows Derek across the bed, tucks his head against Derek's shoulder, and hums. Derek hums back and puts an arm around Stiles with a contented sigh, distracting him with the reassuring slide of fingers along his skin.

After a while Stiles pokes at Derek's chest. "Hey. I'm pretty sure this is cuddling."

Derek doesn't bother to answer.

"Since when are you a cuddler?" 

"Since five minutes ago." When Stiles remains dubiously silent, Derek grumbles, "Are you seriously starting an argument already?"

"Nope. Just checking." Stiles tries to settle, to feel as relaxed as Derek seems. But his thoughts are racing. The yaoguai Derek was hunting is dead. Derek's gotten laid. What if he decides he's ready to move on now? He made some pretty convincing declarations twenty minutes ago, but now that they're not both out of their minds with lust, it feels pathetic to ask him to repeat himself. Stiles's subconscious starts prodding him with a pitchfork made of self-doubt, and he squirms uncomfortably.

"I can feel you thinking," Derek says, resigned.

Stiles jostles the mattress springs getting an elbow under him so he can see Derek's face. Derek may sound annoyed, but he looks worried as he runs a thumb along Stiles's jaw and waits. And Stiles takes a deep breath...and chickens out. "Yeah. Just thinking about you. And this lone-wolfing you've been doing."

The creases between Derek's eyebrows deepen. "What about it?"

"Well, it's dangerous, going out there without backup. I'd worry about you, the next time you went on a hunt. Not that you'd need to go anywhere," Stiles adds quickly. "Have you seen the unexplained-fatality statistics for this town? Pretty disturbing. I've been making a dent, in between study groups and exams and stuff, but there's plenty of supernatural goings-on to keep a guy busy for at least a couple of years. Or two guys, if you wanted—"

"Stiles," Derek says, catching his chin and holding it still.

"Yeah?"

"I would love to stay and be your partner or backup or sidekick or whatever. If you want me to."

Stiles nearly swallows his tongue. He licks his lips and double checks, "There's no 'but' attached to that offer, right?"

Derek smiles up at him, crows feet around his eyes and lethal dimples and everything, and says evenly, "No buts."

"I fucking love you," Stiles breathes, and drops onto Derek's chest so he can kiss him until the sun comes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on [Tumblr](http://samanthahirr.tumblr.com) for Sterek feels!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And Just Watch Us Burn [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612940) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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